Chapter 3

**Alex**

I spent the night digging.

There was dirt in my hair, in my bra, and under my nails. My whole body ached while June sat at the kitchen table, distant. She stared into nothingness for hours. Every time I checked on her, she was still in the same position—arms in her lap, face blank. Pale, bruised, and bloodied.

My arms throbbed. My shoulders burned. Despite the aches, I gained the strength I needed to keep digging. My hands were raw and chapped, I was sure to have calluses by the time this grave was finished. Gregg was kept nearby, covered with a blanket. I kept glancing at him. Paranoid that he might move. Like he wouldn’t be there if I looked away for too long. I’d watched enough television to know how to dig a grave, how to get away with murder—people say not to trust what you see on TV, but if that’s true, then why would they teach kids with it?

The sky turned a deep purple as the clouds drifted apart. I was exhausted, and the bruise that bloomed yellow and violet across my thigh was a constant reminder of him.

I could still feel his hands on me.

The grave was about 6ft deep—maybe more, maybe less. I dragged his body into the hole, making sure the blanket stood in place. I started to bury him, one shovelful at a time. As the dirt pile grew, so did the night, and the stars began to vanish just like Gregg. A tightening built in my chest, creeping up my throat, but I tried to shove it down. I wasn’t done yet. I couldn’t afford to feel anything.

I grabbed some weeds and wildflowers from the yard and planted them into the newfound grave. It worked on television. The sun began to rise. Orange and purple streaked the sky once more. I watched the sunlight slowly crest over the fence.

And I broke.

Tears started—one, then two, then more than my eyes could hold. My chest shook, carrying the heaviest burden to bare. My cheeks burned as my face flushed red. Everything was spilling out, and I couldn’t stop it. I didn’t want to stop it.

“Bastard!” I screamed. “How dare you do this to me! Even after death, you still had to make my life miserable!”

I fell forwards, hands in the grass, panting, shaking, sobbing. I grabbed a pile of dirt scraps into my hands and squeezed it, like I was squeezing my feelings.

I wiped my face, only smearing more dirt across it.

“Well ... you won.”

I walked back into the house looking worse than when I left it. June had fallen asleep at the table. Her head rested in her arms, her body limp. I paused and watched her chest rise—slow and faint. She was still breathing. A small sigh of releif escaped me, the only sound breaking the heavy silence that haunted this house now.

At least she’s alive.

I moved through the wreckage: shards of wood, broken glass, overturned furniture. Gregg’s blood stained the floor. I forgot to clean it. I should care—but I don’t. Not right now. Right now, I needed a shower. The hot water rushed over my skin, and I wanted to melt into it. Swim in its current. The water stung as it washed the bruise on my thigh, a reminder. I watched dirt swirl from my hair and spiral down the drain, my fingers wringing it out again and again until the water ran clear. Until I felt clean, if that was possible. I washed my body three times. Once for the dirt. Twice like a normal person would. The third time to was to try and wash him off of me.

But I knew that last bit wouldn’t come off so easily.

Afterwards, I toweled off and stood bare, studying my reflection.

I didn’t want to know that person. The hazel eyes I knew, but the rest of her? She was a stranger. Tired, bruised, broken—and something else. The truth was, I’d come to know that person for a while now, at least a year. The woman who had been damaged, even before last night. The woman I hadn’t a choice but to evolve into; to survive.

Sadly, I recognized parts of her.

Two swollen lumps had formed beneath my shoulder blades. The skin was still red and tight, but less bruised than it was the last morning— then it hit me, this was my last morning living a free life. A life when I hadn’t buried a body or almost died, because of who I buried.

My last ... morning...

I went to touch the mirror. The woman went to touch back.

Whoever she was— I guess I was her now.

I woke up, feeling the all too familiar sensation of my blanket snuggling my feet. I hardly remembered falling asleep. The sky outside was darkening— sunset. I’d slept the whole day away. I walked down the tight, empty hallway to the stairs from my room. My body still ached, sore in places I didn’t know could hurt. The house was silent. Thirst quenched my throat like a succulent that needed watering. So, I crept downstairs, that one step breaking the silence, and walked into the kitchen.

Empty.

Wait. June. Where’s June!?

Panic settled in. Last, she was there, passed out sleeping. My thoughts scattered; question after question: What if she went to the police? What if she was telling a neighbor everything? What if she went to the hospital? —All bad.

My legs moved before I could think, running out the door into the backyard. Just past the steps, my knees gave out as I tripped, hitting the ground. My breath was ragged. My body shaky. I used the last of my recovered energy panicking. I caught sight of the sun as it had just slipped under the fence, its radiant glow shining over it. A few stars started to peek out. A beautifully grim start to the night. I blatantly stared, because there she was: June, kneeling at Gregg’s grave. Hands folded like she was praying. The blood was still in her hair, dark and crusty. I realized June probably had been up today, as for I, it was almost like yesterday never ended.